


The War Within

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Series: The War of Southern Occupation [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Complications, Compromise, Death, Desire, F/M, Love, Oral Sex, POV Sandor Clegane, Pain, Puppies, Resistance, Rough Sex, Sex, The difficulty of rule, True Love, Violence, War, Westerosi Politics, torn - Freeform, two sides of the same coin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-07-29 13:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Westerosi A/U, SanSan:  The War of Southern Occupation rages while Sandor does his best to maintain his position of power, and reclaim the woman he loves. Stronger together than apart, both Sansa and Sandor must fight to keep their hold on the North and to weather the political backlash born of their union.Reading Part 1 of this series will answer a bunch of questions ;-)





	1. An Uncomfortable Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So you may thank my husband for having me publish this first chapter now ;-) Our holiday and my work travel schedule is going to be hectic for the next several weeks. I won't be able to update a lot, nor would I be able to improve upon the already written chapters. So please just know this will be updated slowly. Also, your input does shape chapters, so let me know!!!
> 
> I also wanted to thank all of you who have followed the part 1 of this story and supported me through that. You've given me inspiration and strength moving forward. Hugs and kisses!
> 
> In no particular order (also please tell me if I missed you) those who contributed to ideas for this:  
> AdultOrphan, LadyCleganeoftheNorth, Mademoiselle_K, PhamtomRose, Angel161400, Alecto_11, Mountainsidemercy
> 
> There are many more but I only had a moment to quickly scan. Thanks to all of you and tell me if I should mention you if I haven't already. Hugs.

#  Chapter 1: An Uncomfortable Distance

 

Sandor was not a man given to liking the world around him, certainly he was not given to loving it. He was a soldier first and foremost, and good hardened soldiers were not supposed to like their work -- certainly they were not given to loving it. Good soldiers were supposed to hate it. In fact they should despise their craft above everything, for it was this hate that fueled campaigns and built dynasties. It was this apathy toward fellow man born from hate that commanders, like Sandor, harnessed to win battles for their liege lords. It was the nearly universal acceptance that war was hell that drove men to end conflicts quickly. For the promise of going home brought with it an even sweeter taste when faced with the realities of living in a war camp. 

 

Home was warm. Home was safe. Home was a reward. 

 

Home didn’t smell like a bloody overripe horse stall. 

 

Winterfell had been the closest thing the Hound had ever had to a home. As a result he was intent on reclaiming it, and everything within its walls. After all these lonely years he finally knew what security tasted like. Understood what it meant to love somebody and even be loved in return. That was why it should have been of little surprise to anyone at this juncture, that Sandor Clegane despised war camps even more than war itself. For if you were sitting in a war camp you weren't on the field fighting, and if you weren't fighting -- you weren’t advancing. If you weren’t advancing -- you were in no way closer to going home. That had never mattered much to him before, but  _ she _ had changed him --  _ she _ had made him a better man, and in so doing, made him vulnerable at the same time. 

 

Running his cold aching fingers through his mess of dark hair, Sandor sat back in his chair. Sansa Stark was a woman after his own heart, a woman who knew exactly what she was doing to him. Winter was coming. The nights were growing longer. The cold bit and nipped at the fingers and toes of his men. Combine this with the nature of war camps, which bred illness and demoralization, and what you had were putrid cesspools ripe for mutiny or complete abandonment of the cause. Sansa knew that without a doubt, for it fueled her drive just as much as it did his own. To stay here -- encamped within earshot of Winterfell -- would be the kiss of death for his side of this war, and for Sandor. 

 

A sly grin reluctantly cracked Sandor’s lips, he would have employed the same tactic if he were in her place, warm and comfortable in a castle. Sansa was intelligent and far more gifted in the art of war than any highborn cunt of a man he had ever met. Be that as it may she was also young and impatient, Sandor knew she would wither slip up or give up. When she did, he would capitalize on it. Theirs was a waiting game, a war of attrition between two evenly matched foes. It would be her inexperience that caught her in the end -- he knew his she-wolf too well now to believe otherwise. Sandor guided his dirt stained fingers through his beard in thought.

 

Already she had sorely underestimated his will to continue. The Hound had a grip on the castle so tight, that he threatened to squeeze blood from its stone walls. His northern foes had to be running low on food, for nothing had come in or out of Winterfell for the months he had been knocking at its doors. He knew that would make things difficult, force her hand in the same way Sansa was trying to force his. He grinned, curious as to who would prevail. Sandor was the picture of calm confidence, approaching this war as he did any other -- with the goal of winning it. It was not out of some misplaced pride over besting a woman, or even to prove to his men he was a capable commander that he stubbornly sat there in the muck and shit outside her family home. He was continuing with this nonsense, allowing it to drag out as long as it had, because he could not bare to be apart from her. Because to lose this war would be political suicide for both of them -- of that Sandor had little doubt.

 

So many elements were in play, Sansa couldn’t even imagine the complexity. He had tried to tell her, tried to reason with her before he was forced to flee the castle*. Despite his best efforts she would have nothing of it. Sansa had spent so much time rising from the ashes of Winterfell, she had had no contact with the greater Westerosi political world. There was a naivete to her actions that had been cute at first, admirable even, but now threatened to upset his already tenuous status with the Lannisters. So for Sandor to capitulate was not simply to lose, it was to turn his back on his woman and child. To leave them to the will of the Lannisters or any other highborn hyenas looking to have a piece -- and he could not allow it. He was not so cold as to sit by and watch his family be torn to shreds. 

 

Not now, not ever.

 

Pensive, Sandor looked in the direction of where he knew Winterfell to be from inside his tent and felt a longing. It was an uncomfortable distance to be so close, yet so far away. Victory was within reach, if he could only reason with her. There was a danger in taking the castle by force, but he knew Sansa’s pride would prevent her from listening to reason, from coming down to his humble quarters to parley. That reluctance was forcing his hand, making him end this recklessly.

 

There was no other choice that made sense as far as he could tell. Retaking the castle was the only option she had left him. Sandor was on a knife’s edge at the thought, a caged dog cornered and ready to strike. Though sure of his decision, he knew he was being unusually reckless, hoping the tension in the camp and the desperation that proliferated there would force him to think of a plan to get out of this -- to win back what he so desperately needed to -- before it was too late. Sandor had always worked well under pressure, was creative in the worst and most difficult times. But there was something different about this moment, something that inextricably blocked him. Though he was loath to admit it, he was incomplete without Sansa by his side -- fearful she might not survive if he attacked the castle -- and equally fearful that if he didn’t act soon their time to negotiate with the Lannisters would pass. It was this thought that had begun to fan the flames of desperation in this normally composed commander. 

 

Over five months had passed since they had met each other on the battlefield, since he had promised to take back the stronghold. So Sandor could only assume that their child had been born with little issue, otherwise the ravens would have flown a long time ago. It was unsurprising to him that Sansa had not sent word of the child’s birth, not even a rat came out of the castle without being captured, interrogated, killed or tortured. The Hound was many things, but he was not merciful. Suspicions about the child had been confirmed only recently when a northern scout made the poor misstep of being captured just before the reaching the walls of Winterfell. The sorry son of a bitch had the poor luck to have caught Sandor on a bad day, so he made sure the young man felt the same way he did. Sandor broke every non-essential bone in his body, even after his captive had agreed to talk. It felt good to let his anger out, to see the fear in the man’s eyes. There was no denying that Sandor enjoyed the power that complete physical domination gave him. He was a killer by nature, born and bred much like his grandfather had bred his hunting dogs to be the most sought after in the realm. The scout’s torture had uncovered a few interesting bits of information, along with the confirmation that the Lady of Winterfell had given birth as southern forces had bombarded the castle in the early days of the war. It seemed that, at the most hectic and intense moments of the battle, Sansa had been laboring in her own right. The child was healthy and strong, but the man did not know if it was a boy or a girl. Only that the babe existed. Sandor killed the scout soon after that, only because he had begged Sandor to. A small mercy in return for the information he had received. That had been four days ago, two days after a raven from the north had dogged his archers and made it to the castle.

 

Snorting, Sandor took a mouthful of wine then pounded his fist on the wooden desk of his tent in frustration. Knowledge of the babe had only fed his desire to end this whole thing as quickly as possible -- which put him outside of his comfort zone, forced him to take risks he would not normally. Sandor had learned over the years that war was not about how many battles you won, but how you learned from from the ones you lost. The more information you could discern from our opponent, the more likely you were to recognize and win the right battles. So many of Sandor’s contemporaries went out of their way to win every battle at all costs, but not Sandor -- unlike in life in war he was patient. 

 

But this war was different.

 

Strategic thinking was something he had learned from his liege lord, Tywin Lannister. There was no dispute about the man’s prowess on the battlefield. Lord Tywin would go down in the history of Westeros as being one of the most tactical and strategic military man to ever grace its lands. Sandor had grown much under his tutelage. While the Imp drank himself into an early grave and Ser Jamie was too busy looking at himself in the mirror and chasing after his sister to go on long campaigns -- Sandor had been learning in their stead. Ofcourse there had been more to it than that, with the Lannisters nothing was as it seemed. They had always exercised and enjoyed a certain amount of control over the Cleganes. Gregor had pleased them greatly -- his ability to rape, pillage and cause general destruction ensured that the lower lords stayed true and loyal Lannister bannermen. Sandor on the other hand, had always been unruly. He had despised this eternal game and would have prefered he become a kennel master or a mercenary -- anything but the dependent pet of the Lannisters. Lord Tywin had noticed Sandor’s potential as a commander early on, and had also come up with a way to remedy his subversion -- keeping a tight leash on his beloved and most prized dog. 

 

_ ‘Elenore.’ _ Sandor looked over at the letter that had arrived by rider earlier that day. Sansa wasn’t the only one getting mail these days. While he wasn’t sure, nor did he want to speculate too much on what the contents of the raven had been, he did know what his letter was about. 

 

It angered him.

 

Sandor filled his pewter chalice with wine and drank deep. Elenore was his younger sister. His mother had brought her to the world in old age, for she was younger than Sansa by four years. She was his collar and leash, instrument through which the Lannisters kept Sandor loyal to their cause. He’d never told Sansa about her, what had been the point as long as he was following orders? Every evil thing he had ever done had been on the order of Lord Tywin had been with the understanding that, if he didn’t follow through, his sister would be ‘mistreated’. Sandor was a hard man by nature -- a soldier by design -- it was not difficult or morally reprehensible to be the tip of the Lannister spear. As a matter of fact it had won him renown for one reason or another across Westeros. But he did the bidding of his liege lord only because of his sister, otherwise the loyal Hound would have run off a long time ago. Forged his own way in life on his own terms.

 

_ ‘Or merged my forces with Sansa’s long before all this mess.’ _ Sandor was a man of few regrets, but now he found himself between two worlds. One which urged him to do the Lannister’s bidding, and one which urged him to follow his heart. For a man not given to a bright pallet of emotions, it was painful to navigate this new found world.

 

Having been appointed Governor of the North had been the perfect solution, he was keeping the Lannisters happy whilst chasing his own personal desires. Sansa’s rebellion, subsequent reclamation of the castle and their child would now change the tentative balance of power Sandor had always tried hard to keep in his favor. 

 

_ ‘It would have been easier if she had just been a bloody farm girl.’ _ Sandor lamented, drinking yet another full gulp of wine. 

 

As it now stood both Sandor and Sansa had made a grave error, taken a misstep in Westerosi culture and expectations. The repercussions of which meant that they were teetering on the edge of political suicide. Sansa wasn’t for a man like him, she was bred for kings not lowly lords who followed commands like a well trained hound. Their affair and the child that came from it would throw everything into chaos, and Sandor didn’t know if he would be able to save it. He had pained over this greatly the last months, felt solutions slipping from his grasp as the time wore on. Though Sandor enjoyed impunity under Tywin Lannister for his military successes, his loss of Winterfell and well documented love of a traitor had already eroded his clout in this circle. The boy King had not been able to touch him so long as Sandor had kept winning lands in the boy’s name, now Sandor wasn’t so sure where he stood. This was why he had to act quickly, move to take the castle and take Sansa as his bride. In that there might be a way to save both her life and his -- and that of his sister.

 

Sandor looked at the letter again. He didn’t have to open it to know what it said, the words were seared into his mind. 

 

_ ‘Dearest Sandor, _

 

_ I hope this letter reaches you in your far away location in the North. Lord Tywin has told me many things over the last weeks and I am troubled. I urge you not to forget your promise to him and to me. So fight hard, fight strong and I hope to hear of your victory soon. _

 

_ Love, _

_ Elenore’ _

 

She was young and did not understand how her words hurt him, had been sheltered to how her guardianship shackled him. It had been years since they had seen one another, but he knew these were not really her sentiments -- though they came neatly spelled out in her script. They were spoon fed to her, a way to motivate him to do something other than sit in this war camp like a heart broken beast. If Sandor had to be honest with himself, he was nearing his wit’s end, ready to try anything to save the things dearest to him. This letter had been the final straw, the thing that had pushed him over the edge.

 

Sandor’s tent flap opened and one of his lieutenants stepped in, turning the Hound’s attention from his misery. “My Lord, a troupe of wondering acrobats have entered camp asking permission to perform for us this evening.”

 

That sort of thing wasn’t uncommon, often times they brought whores with them as well -- sort of a full service entertainment type of arrangement. Sandor, however, could not shake the feeling that Sansa was behind it. His host had sat there for several months and nothing like this had come up before.The timing was too perfect, the change in movement around the castle telling him that the raven had brought quite some news. 

 

_ ‘But of what?’  _ Sandor stroked his beard a moment and considered his options. His men would have to remain vigilant, ensure that they would not be attacked by the northern forces from outside.

 

_ ‘And what of from within?’  _ Sandor leaned back, still eyeing his lieutenant.  _ ‘If she’s trying to tell me something, what would it be?’ _ It was a gut instinct and nothing more, this feeling that Sansa might go to great lengths to contact him. It had been what he wanted after all, to keep such a tight hold on her castle that she would be forced to come to him. The suspicion lingered, hung heavy in the air like the smell of rotting fish as Sandor mulled over his decision.  _ ‘Perhaps my patience has finally paid off.’ _

 

“Search their carriages carefully, but allow them to perform. It will increase our moral. And make sure we still have our lookouts -- the enemy could attack at any time.” Sandor ordered.

 

“As you wish.” Bowed Sandor’s lieutenant. “Will you join then this evening Lord Commander?” The young man who stood in front of him almost looked scared to ask, but clearly felt obligated to do so.

 

Sandor barked out a laugh, “No. I don’t have time for that shit.”

 

At this his lieutenant bowed and left the tent. Sandor hoped he wasn’t imagining things that weren't there. He needed to believe in his heart of hearts that there was a bit of sanity left in his exhausted cold body. What he needed now, was a bit of fresh air.


	2. The Complications of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finds a spy in his room and deals with her accordingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love and miss you! Currently I am on the last day of a 4 day Congress in Berlin and it’s so boring. At the same time every night I drop into bed. Though I was able to tweek this chapter 2 for you. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> The * indicate references to Part 1.

#  Chapter 2: The Complications of Power

 

He waited until the wine had worn off a bit, and his men had collected to watch the acrobat troupe before making his rounds in the camp. Sandor needed some fresh air, needed to escape his thoughts and the torment they brought with them. Without a doubt he needed to escape the small tent he had called home over the last months of this war. The air was crisp. Sandor should have worn a cloak but had not. The strong northern air was revitalizing, sharpening his mind and tuning his awareness. The night was dark with no moon at all, these kinds of nights aways gave him pause, made him more cautious than he normally would be.

 

_ ‘Difficult to see if somebody is creeping up on the camp.’ _ He noted, still wondering if it was more than coincidence that the traveling entertainers had come on such a night. 

 

At the very least his lookouts were still awake, speaking softly to one another as they watched the perimeter. Sandor’s men were loyal to him and him alone. Not to the Lannisters and not to any other belief or creed. This was important when you considered all that they had been through together, and all that they would go through still. Sandor and his men had withstood countless battles over the years. They had fought in Dorne, suppressed the Ironborn, and put down rebellions in the Westerlands all in the name of the Lannisters. Sandor’s army did it for brotherhood, for glory, for the chance to serve a worthy commander. Sure, they had taken untold spoils of war with them, gained a reputation as fierce and efficient -- but at the end of the day they desired the opportunity to distinguish themselves under a good leader. All would have given their right hands for him and that gave Sandor a sense of pride -- as well as responsibility when it came to their well being. They were a band of brothers, or the closest to brothers he had ever had and Sandor was pushing them to their limits now. Asking them to freeze and die at the foot of a castle that had once been his. This knowledge weighed heavily on his heart as Sandor trudged through the camp.

 

The sounds of clapping and cheering had only just started in the center of the camp, where the acrobats had started to perform. It was punctuated by the moaning of female company as well -- surely there would be a line for the whores tonight. Most of his men hadn’t seen a woman since they had started the siege of Winterfell, there was bound to be more than pent up frustration in the ranks. 

 

A sadness suddenly swept over Sandor along with the cold northerly wind, for the more he walked, the clearer his task became. He would have to storm the castle before winter really and truly hit the camp -- he would have to gamble on retaking Winterfell and on the lives of his woman and child. This realization gave him no joy. Sandor had never had issues cheating the Stranger from what the deity craved most -- though, in the back of his mind, Sandor hoped the god would shut his eyes once again.

 

_ ‘She has left me little choice.’  _ He decided. Now all Sandor needed to do was accept the risk that came with that decision -- it was harder than he wanted it to be. 

 

Sandor Clegane was a logical man, he always had been. It was what had made him a good commander and an even better leader. Everything had run fine until she had come into his world. Sansa had changed everything, changed Sandor’s life in so many ways he couldn’t even begin to describe it. It was not the first time he had felt the fear of losing someone -- his sister was a case in point. But this was the first time he had felt romantic love, the first time his logical mind had been invaded by the illogical. With this came fears he could never have conceived of nor described if he had been asked to. It was an unsettling feeling, one he was not given to.

 

Weaving in and out of the tents with the knowledge that he must act Sandor began to slowly feel  a calm fall over him, a calm he had not felt in a very long time. It was that kind of calm you only felt once you knew what you had to do and were no longer afraid to do it.  _ ‘We’ll attack at dawn in two days’ time. _ ’ He promised himself. It would be the best way, the only way.

 

Sandor had a smile on his face as he made his way back to his tent. The men would be in good spirits after this show, and it would be the best opportunity to rally them for a final assault on Winterfell. The stars were aligning, his plan taking shape in his mind. That confidence didn’t stop his hair from standing on end when he noticed a shadow moving within his tent. Narrowing his eyes a moment, Sandor observed the figure. His candles were still burning as he had left them, meaning that any motion inside his tent could be seen on the outside.

 

Snorting, the Hound quickly assessed his opponent. He was tall and lanky, dressed as a stable hand from what he could tell based on the shape of the hat that adorned the boy’s head. It had to have been a boy, for the body was far too thin to be that of a man’s. Sandor’s dagger burned in its sheathat his hip. 

 

_ ‘A spy?’  _ Sandor wondered, for he was going through Sandor’s desk, rummaging around the papers.

 

Smiling, Sandor made his way around the back of the tent to a small seam where the fabric overlapped. Always on the highest alert, he usually had an escape route in the back of his tents, just in case he had to make a hasty exit. Tonight, Sandor would have the joy of using it to catch his opponent by surprise, for they were facing toward the tent flaps in the front, looking up from time to time so as to make sure nobody was approaching. Pulling the dagger from its sheath, Sandor silently made his way to the back of his tent eyeing the shadow as a predator would its prey. Pushing through the back of the tent at speed, he grabbed the boy from behind, pulling him flush to his body and pressing the dagger to his slender long throat. But just as quickly Sandor felt a sinking feeling in his gut, he couldn’t have said what had triggered this feeling -- a sound, a smell, a touch -- but he was suddenly overcome with the fear that he had pressed the knife too deeply into Sansa’s throat. 

 

Twisting her body around to face him and pushing her down onto his bed, Sandor was seized by the fear that he had severed her jugular with the sharp dagger -- his well choreographed attack more instinct than conscious choice. He had, foolishly, not expected her to have the audacity to come to his tent, had not played with the idea of such boldness. In truth he should have known better, for this was one of the many reasons he had fallen so madly in love with the Lady of Winterfell. 

 

Her red hair fell from the hat she had been wearing as she landed on her back. Automatically her left hand went flying to her neck, her Tully blue eyes in shock and fear at what he had done. Quickly she pulled her hand from her throat to inspect the blood - Sandor felt great relief that he had only nicked her -- his reflexes and senses still as sharp as ever. She looked up at him from her sprawled position on his bed. It was unsurprising to Sandor that her face was one of near disbelief at the quickness of his reactions -- to kill and to spare all at once. Sansa had never experienced violence by his hand, he had always made it a point to be gentle with her -- so when her face turned to indignance at his treatment he couldn’t help but grin. 

 

Sandor was standing over her, his hip cocked to the side, the knife still in his hand. His eyes drinking in the woman he loved. She was just as he remembered, her blue eyes sparkled with life, her red hair still shone the color of copper, her body tall and slender -- a fitness to it because she enjoyed training with weapons. Despite her youthful appearance and beauty Sandor could see the war had taken its toll on her. Motherhood, command, power with accountability -- though she hid it well -- he could see she was exhausted -- drained even. It was the small things that tipped him off, her face was thinner and even in the low light he could see she had some dark circles under her eyes. There was no doubt in his mind she was as tired as he was. Therein lay the kern of his plan, that this war of attrition would end in her yielding first. 

 

When she finally realized everything was going to be ok, that she wasn’t injured --  Sansa matched his smile. Standing up she approached Sandor with a smirk, her boy’s leather pants clinging tightly to her rounded bum. Ofcourse he was dying to know how she had snuck into the camp. In his gut Sandor knew he had been right about her chosen method to contact him, but in his mind he was curious as to the details. He would have to shrug it off for now, put those thoughts aside in favor of the here and now.

 

She stopped in front of him, only a few inches separating their chests. “There’s no need for that you know. I’m unarmed.” Her eye flickered to his dagger then back to him.

 

“Dunno, I’m still going to need to check just to make sure.” He responded, an equally naughty smirk on his face. They grinned at one another and she threw herself toward him -- wrapping her arms around his neck.

 

They kissed, his dagger dropping to the floor as he pulled his arms tightly around Sansa’s waist. There was no way to describe the way he felt, it was almost as if they had never been apart. His heart burned for her, his body longed for her touch -- and the voracity of her kiss indicated she felt the same way. His she-wolf tasted like honey, her tongue smooth and warm in his mouth. Sandor could feel her heart beating through her chest, hear her eager breaths and moans. It didn’t take long for her hand to pass over the front of his trousers, massaging his stiffening manhood. That was all the invitation he needed to push her down to his bed yet again -- pulling off her boots and placing himself back on top of her. Sandor didn’t care if his men thought he was having some sort of tryst with a boy whore, knowing how it could look from the outside, he wanted her. He needed her  _ now _ .

 

Sandor’s lips hurriedly met Sansa’s again. Her arms closed around his back, her fingers running through his long hair. She was an amazing creature -- a treasure for an old dog like him -- something warm and soft. She was his home. Sandor kicked his own boots off as their tongues played together, then took the liberty of pulling her pants down only to reveal she had no small clothes. Growling at the realization that she had been looking forward to their meeting in just the same way he had, Sandor continued reacquainting himself with her body. He parted her legs roughly and dipped his fingers inside of her. Sansa whimpered into his mouth at his touch, bucking her hips to meet his fingers. She was wet for him, he could feel her little cunt clutching around his digits. All he wanted was to have her, to renew their bond, to be her companion -- prove that they were meant to be together. It was an animalistic desire, to be her man, to prove he was strong enough to warrant her affections.

 

Sansa began to fiddle with his leather armor, her fingers uncertain how to open the latches to free his body. Grabbing her hands, feeling her soft silky skin under his course worn fingertips, he brought them to the latches and moved them over the clasps. Flashing him a wicked smile, she undid them properly and he slipped out of the side allowing for her to pull his tunic over his head as well. He was on his knees between her naked legs and hips, her eyes immediately took in his body. She had always enjoyed his physicality, found great pleasure in both looking at and touching his body -- feeling it move against her softer slimmer one. There was no reason not to allow her this pleasure and not to bask in it her attentions. Sandor was breathing hard, looking down at her with interest as she ran her fingers teasingly down his chest to his trousers. There was no hiding his desire, no covering it up -- despite all that had happened these last months, he wanted her just as much as before. Some would have said he was a glutton for punishment, but in the end -- putting all the things that had happened between them aside -- he found solice in a partnership. He had no interest in being her keeper, nor did she want to be his. There was a freedom between them and Sandor was found immense joy from the idea that she wanted to be by his side. 

 

Sandor’s hands went to her tunic, lifting it up over her head. Her breasts were tied up tight in cloth -- he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. She was nursing, that meant the babe was alive, that their child was real.

 

_ ‘I’m a father.’ _ He acknowledged the reality for the first time. Before Sandor had always been unsure, had not known it in truth, but now -- as he tentatively reached out to undo the cloth he could see they were full with nourishment for their child. Larger and rounder than he remembered -- and who was he to complain?

 

He pressed his face between her breasts, nuzzling them and feeling their warmth against his face. It was the closest he had ever come to their child since its birth, his burned cheek taking in the softness of her breast, Sandor felt a connection. Even if it was only imagined. She chuckled at this, her tiny fingers running through his hair, her legs wrapped around the backs of his thighs.

 

They didn’t have much time these traveling performers gave no more than a two hour performance. So they would have to be quick about it, and he would have to be smart. Sandor wasn’t so sure he could, in good conscious, let her go back to the castle. Not when she had stepped so willingly into his web, a fly sacrificing herself to the spider. It was the mark of a good commander to keep all options open as long as possible, and Sandor was better than good. Having come up on his knees Sandor looked down at Sansa, taking in her features. He agreed with himself that he would play this out and make a decision after he knew why she was there. It would be the best. He smirked at her freeing his manhood from the increasing tightness of his leather trousers. Coming back down to the familiar warmth of her body Sandor knew he didn’t need to guide himself to her core -- his cock knew the way instinctively. 

 

She gasped loudly as he entered her, making him quickly cover her mouth with his hand. She was warm, wet, eager and he found himself quickly bottoming out though her walls closed tightly around him. Replacing his hand with his mouth, he pressed his tongue deeply into her mouth, teasing her to challenge him. Sansa’s slender fingers were making their way down his back, following the slope of his muscles down the curve of his back and firmly planting themselves on his ass cheeks. She was pushing him deeper and harder inside of her.

 

_ ‘If she wants me to shag the seven out of her, who am I to complain?’  _ He laughed to himself as he picked up a grueling pace. If she wanted him to put his back into it she was going to get exactly what was coming to her.

 

Her mouth pulled away from his as she squeaked her pleasure to him -- knowing she needed to keep as quiet as possible. He was hitting her deep and fast, and was almost certain she was seeing double with the amount of force he was putting into his strokes. When she couldn’t take it anymore, when the build up had become too much she bit down on his shoulder, only pushing Sandor to fuck her harder. He wasn’t one to argue to have a little pain with his pleasure, certainly not when she wasn’t holding back anymore. When he had controlled the castle and she was his mistress there had always been something she kept between them. Sandor had always assumed she had done out of protest, showing him that she only would lie with him because he demanded it. It had always given him great pleasure to make her give in, to watch her her emotions change across her face from mistrust, to enjoyment, to passion and then to anger at herself. But now Sandor knew the feeling had run deeper than that, she had felt herself traitorous enjoying herself in his bed -- given she was a Stark and he an invader in her ancestral lands. This meeting, this love making was different than in times past. She was more demanding, more willing and all other tentativeness was simply gone.

 

Sandor smiled to himself at this revelation as she tugged hard on the dark hair that carpeted his chest, the walls of her cunt shuddering and throbbing around his cock -- not hiding her orgasim from him. Over his lifetime Sandor had fought thousands of battles, claimed untold riches but nothing compared to these moments with her. His woman, his partner, his equal. Together they were strong, fierce -- a force that would bring a reckoning with it. Apart they were weak, and he could not allow it anymore. Wrapping her hair around his fist he pulled her head so she was looking at him -- she had the look of a she-wolf on her face. It was this pleased but dangerous look -- like she would bite him if he got too forceful, attack to defend herself against his sexual aggressions if the need arose. It was that look he loved the most, it was that look that would put him over the edge as he labored between her legs. Sandor wanted to see her face when he came, wanted her to know in some sort of primal way that he was the only one strong enough to claim he,r and courageous enough to love her for who she really was.

 

His balls clenched tight to his body, driving his seed through the tip of his engorged manhood deep into her. It had been so long it hurt but also gave him great satisfaction. Their bond was confirmed, their love still as strong as ever. She was smiling at him, nipping gently at his bottom lip with the sort of affection most men only dream of from a woman like that. She was a creature so rare, nobody could appreciate her the way Sandor could.

 

Rolling off to the side of her, Sandor pulled her back to his chest giving her his arm so she could rest her neck upon it. They would only have a brief moment to enjoy this feeling -- pretending that nothing else in the world mattered -- that they were alone and happy. Sandor let an appropriate amount of time pass before he asked her the question that had been going through his mind since he had realized she was in his tent spying on him.

 

“Surely you didn’t come all the way down here just for the pleasure of fucking me in the muck of this god forsaken place.” His deep voice whispered into her ear, while his free hand teasingly drew a line from her shoulder to the dip in her waist. 

 

Sandor could feel her shift uncomfortably in his grasp. “Am I that predictable?” She asked, trying not to sound as scandalized as she felt. 

 

Not that there was anything wrong with her wanting something from him. Sandor wanted her to want things from him. That had been the goal of his siege and blockade of the castle, so, as the Hound saw it, this clandestine meeting was the culmination of five months of hard work on his part. She was playing into his hands, whether willingly or knowingly was a different question.

 

When he didn’t answer she turned so as to be on her side now facing him, her hair falling across her shoulders and chest like a stream of auburn water. If there was one thing she had not perfected, it was discerning his facial expressions -- and he meant to keep it that way so long as they were at war. It always set her on edge, and he needed every edge he could get with the she-wolf.

 

When the silence had stretched uncomfortably between them she spoke, “Jon is dead. A raven came a few days ago.”

 

Sansa was searching his eyes for something, but Sandor kept his expression trained. In truth he wasn’t sorry, from all accounts the kid had been a cunt and had run a fool’s errand in going to the wildlings and the Crows for help. If anything Sandor was surprised he hadn’t ended up dead sooner. 

 

Not finding what she wanted Sandor could see the frustration build in her cheeks, like a smoldering fire burnt under her soft white skin. She was even more pretty when she was angry, and her anger didn’t scare him -- it merely pushed her further into his arms. 

 

Her expression changed suddenly, with an emotion he had never seen before. Sansa got out of the furs of his bed briefly and grabbed a small satchel he hadn’t seen before from the chair that stood at Sandor’s meager desk. She brought it to the bed, and sat back down with a look that he could only identify as scared when her eyes met his again.

 

“I fear for the babe.” She began, her voice shakey -- the real tiredness and desperation of her situation coming through. “He’s the only….”

 

Her voice trailed off because, for the first time Sandor’s expression changed from stone to disbelief. “We have a boy?” He asked his large palm coming to her cheek so as to be sure she would not look away. 

 

Forgetting her fears for a moment she smiled and nodded. “Sandor I should have…”

 

“Shuush.” He cooed, it was war after all -- no harm in that.

 

“He’s big for his age the Maester says, and strong. He’s beautiful Sandor, our son.” Her eyes were teary with joy in this moment, not the fear from before. “His name is Brenden - I whelped for you but gave him my name anyway**.” 

 

Sandor snorted at her cheekiness, remembering words he had said to her almost in another lifetime. The night he had struck a deal with the woman who would change his life, the night his world be turned on its head. Now it was clear why she had come to him so quickly, and the desperation of her situation. Sansa almost didn’t have to say it -- for he already knew. By Northern law their babe was a Stark -- the only male Stark in Westeros. Sandor’s heart beat faster at the thought. Giving the boy his name would have been somehow better in this instance, perhaps it could have avoided certain tensions. But it would not erase the fact that his mother was a traitor to the crown, or that he had Stark blood in him. 

 

_ ‘If you had only been a bloody farm girl.’ _ Sandor thought to himself again their eyes holding one another’s,  _ ‘Everything would be so much more simple.’ _

 

Their soft moment passed and Sansa dug into the satchel. “Does this look in any way familiar to you?” She handed him a dagger -- dampening his mood almost instantly.

 

His eyes widened and held hers a moment, then he went to looking over it while she spoke. “As I said I fear for the babe. There was an attempt on his life last night.”

 

She might as well have punched him in the gut and stomped on his balls. Sandor expected there to be issues with a male Stark, particularly when the father was a lowly Clegane -- but an attempt so quickly on the child’s life spoke to far deeper tensions. Tensions between her and the northern lords -- whom she had allied to and fought with.

 

_ ‘Not so easy being in power.’ _ He thought tauntingly, trying to contain his rising anger.  _ ’And not easy keeping it either.’ _ Sandor did not vocalize these thoughts, knowing it was not the time to settle tactical and strategic scores with her.

 

“The blade is a southern make, Valyrian steel. The quality is good -- so its owner has money.” Sandor said, handing it back to her. “Not mine if that’s what you want to know.”

 

“I didn’t mean to insinuate...” She began quickly but Sandor waved it off, he knew she had not -- but that wouldn't stop him from prodding her.

 

“The assassin didn’t hit his mark I’ll wager.” Sandor was always calm in these situations, you had to be because outcomes couldn’t be changed. In his line of work there was no point to living in the past.

 

There was a little self satisfied grin that crossed Sansa’s face that only reinforced the fact that she loved the power that came with the kill.  _ ‘Two sides of the same coin.’*** _ The thought of that giving him a renewed rush of blood between his legs.

 

“Of course not.” She had a wicked grin. “The would-be assassin sorely underestimated my abilities with a sword.”

 

Sandor merely inclined his head, as if it were no great surprise to him. Which it wasn’t -- he knew what she was capable of, seen in first hand, and it made him weak in the knees for her.

 

“And where is the child now?” He asked smoothly, hoping she hadn’t made a grave error in leaving Winterfell this night.

 

“He’s with Gendry.” She said quickly, surely wanting to have left that part out -- for it angered Sandor. “He’s like a father to the boy -- I trust him completely.”

 

Beating his fist hard against the bed between them Sandor couldn’t contain his anger. “I’m his father! ME! Not that northern cunt!” Sandor was aware he was yelling but he didn’t care. He’d long suspected the smith had wanted to move in on his wife and child. 

 

_ ‘I should have killed him by my own hand. It was a mistake to leave him alive.’  _ Sandor had thought this many times when it came to Gendry. Not just because it had given Sansa a platform to launch her revolution, but because of her closeness to him.

 

Strangely his anger at the situation seemed to please Sansa for she smiled at his jealousy, and brought a hand to his neck to calm him. “I think of you every night and sing our boy tales of your bravery and your conquests.” 

 

There was a flicker of fire in her eyes, and he knew she loved him. Perhaps she had her own reservations about his views on fatherhood and was merely testing his resolve with her words. It was hard to say, but for now he was content with her answers. He kissed her again, bringing himself slowly back to the task at hand -- to the troubles that threatened their family.

 

“So there is collusion amongst the Northern Lords to usurp your power by killing our son.” He summarized. “Power is a fickle thing, harder to maintain once you have it -- easier to gain when you have little.”  He paused a moment to think about how he would put the next part, then just said it, “You did orchestrate the deaths of quite a few of them in the Great Hall.****”

 

She narrowed her eyes in response, as a teenager would when you told them something they already knew. It seemed she had underestimated their cunning as well as the length of their memory, and Sandor needed to be sure she fully appreciated the blood on her hands. The night the Northern Lords had come to the Great Hall, the few which were sympathetic to Sandor’s governorship had not been a majority - yet their loss had undoubtedly been felt. In some cases two generations were slaughtered that evening. It had sent a strong message, of that Sandor had no doubt -- but he was equally confident that it had been the wrong message. If Sansa had thought for one second that a cruel act would earn her their respect, she had miscalculated. If she had thought they would not look upon their child as both a threat and an abomination, she had underestimated the lows to which man could stoop. Sansa had gained their loyalty through fear, and fear was a fickle fickle thing.

 

Sandor had known all along that her push to rule the North would be more difficult than she had envisioned. It was all fun and games fighting against a foreign power, but once that was done -- once she had sacrificed the implements at her disposal,  the real battle would begin. If she hadn't been so keen to kick him out of the castle he would have explained that to her. The Northern Lords had shown themselves fickle, concerned with their own power and not apt to follow a woman -- even if she did manage to overthrow a well known and feared southern commander. If anything it just made it easier for them to use her name and then discard her. The boy was a problem, not only to the Northern Lords but to the South as well, Sandor was keenly aware of this. And she’d given him a proper Stark name to boot. Hence the collusion -- it spread much deeper than he had wanted it to, yet he shook that thought from his mind for now.

 

Had he told her all of this months before of course, as she had retaken her home, Sansa would have laughed at him anyway or brushed it off. Sansa Stark was one who needed to feel it for herself, gain her own experiences -- that didn’t make it less frustrating but they were in the situation now. It couldn’t have been more perfect if he had planned it. Now he needed to know what she wanted to do about it, he had a few ideas of his own.

 

She sighed deeply at his words, her only acknowledgement that what he said was true. “I need your help Sandor.” 

 

It wasn’t easy for her to say, but he couldn’t hide his smirk nor did he try to. It was coming, that thing he had been fighting for all these months. Sandor felt that moment of excitement a lion feels when it has long stocked its prey and finally -- after many trials and tribulations -- sees the end in sight. A kill.  Exhaling, the Hound fought to steady his beating heart.

 

“I need you to take the castle. It’s the only way…” She trailed off a moment as if she were trying to find the right words. “ I...we need to find who is plotting against my reign and root them out.” 

 

Crossing his arms, Sandor listened to what she had to say. Curious as to what she had in mind, but not giving her anything to work with either. Now was the time for him to use the wisdom that came with his age and experience. He would neither rush in to help her, nor would he let her get away for he was a patient old dog, good at what he did.

 

Seeing he would not engage her in conversation, Sansa reluctantly continued with her plan, looking down on the floor as if she were somewhat ashamed. “It has to look like you’ve taken the castle, not that I’ve capitulated.”  Not sure if he found her plan of value, she pleaded with him. “I’m popular with the people and I can use this to our advantage -- weather the storm.” 

 

In his mind Sandor was jumping up and down and running in victory circles. That wouldn’t solve his bigger picture issues, questions such as _ ‘How did a southern style dagger end up in the North?’  _ And,  _ ‘Who was behind the plot to kill their son?’ _ But the answers to those questions may never come to light and Sandor knew it. _ ‘One foot in front of the other.’  _ He reminded himself.

 

Sandor smirked at her words, leaning in closer he began. “How do I know this isn’t some sort of trick?” 

 

Her immediate reaction told him it was not trick. She was serious. While he admired her cunning, loved it even --  it did not change the fact that he had grown tired of her games. Now was not the time to bicker between themselves. If anything they needed to stand together, think as one. Sandor needed to be sure she understood this. 

 

“This is about our son, about preserving the North.” She said obstantly, tears forming in her eyes because she couldn't properly voice her opposition to him. “You must believe me.” Her hand when to his chest as she pleaded. Her bottom lip quivered in that cute way that would have made a normal man’s heart melt. It was moments like this that only confirmed to Sandor he was different from normal men. For it was not these things that swayed his heart, it was when she was at her fiercest that he would do anything for her, give her everything. He was drawn to her strength.

 

_ ‘Once we rebuild the North the she-wolf will run free.’ _ It could be no other way and Sandor knew it. Now, however, he needed her to give him the upper hand. He needed to be her master, for lack of a better word, show his overlords he was in control of her-- otherwise they would not make it.

 

Taking her hand from his chest Sandor kissed her open palm. “I have conditions if we are do this. I risk both my men and whatever is left of my reputation on this little  _ agreement _ .” He made his way down to her wrist before he checked her face. She was surprised at his assertion but willing to hear him out. Now he would get what he wanted, he moved in for the kill like a hound having tracked its prey over a great expanse of distance.

 

“You will marry me the evening the castle is taken, and I’ll claim the babe as my own.” She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off. “He may keep the name of Stark. Though I would prefer mine,there are provisions in the Northern laws for this...don’t look so surprised I did some reading on my patrols.” He flashed Sansa a wicked grin -- knowing he had caught her off guard with his knowledge of the North*****. “But I will  _ not _ have my son a bastard.” His tone was absolute and she nodded her agreement.

 

Knowing time was short Sandor grabbed her boots and found her trousers, handing them to Sansa. He liked watching her dress, there was something erotic about her doing everyday things that made him want to give up the soldier life. It made him want to do something mundane like farming or raising dogs, just for the pleasure of watching her sew, or dress, or play with their child. This knowledge made him want to give her something more stable, more real. 

 

_ ‘If this goes to plan, I will.’ _ Sandor smiled to himself.

 

“Is that all?” She tried to sound casual about it, as if they were discussing something frivolous such as what to have for dinner. In reality Sandor knew she wasn’t ready for steep political negotiations, not yet. Sandor knew this because she was letting him lead the conversation. Sansa was still far too naive to navigate certain aspects of the political life that would soon be thrust upon her -- upon them. But he would teach her to the best of his abilities. 

 

_ ’If it’s not too late to make amends with the crown.’  _ Sandor shook this mutinous thought from his mind. For he had to believe it was possible if this was going to work. 

 

“No.” Sandor answered. “If we are to root out who has been bought by the crown I want  _ my _ men in the castle. They are loyal to me, not the Lannisters. That means your resistance members, your soldiers - disband them.” It was the final blow, the hardest blow. It had to be done. He would temper it of course, but she needed to agree. He needed to know she trusted him.

 

Sansa sucked in air as she tied up her boots, her mouth doing this funny little thing it always did when she was thinking hard. Sandor chose to recline in his soldier's bed, his hands folded behind his head in an attempt to look as relaxed as possible. Underneath her thin veil of control she was pissed. There was a moment where Sandor had to choke down a smug grin -- for she was rather fetching when she was angry. He could see how her chest got red and flushed with her eire, but she was trying to maintain the appearance of calm.

 

Finally she looked up at him, adjusting her tunic. “Alright.” The word came out of her lips lackluster, as if she had wanted to spit it out as soon as possible because it tasted bad. 

 

A triumphant smile on his marred face, Sandor relaxed into his lumpy pillows. “From now on, we’re in this together. As it was meant to be.” He paused to see if Sansa was following. She was, though he could see that slump in her posture -- like he had taken the wind out of her sails.

 

_ ‘She’ll recover.’ _ Sansa was fighter. It was in her blood, something she couldn’t suppress even if she had tried to-- but like all good fighters, you needed to get the wind knocked out of you sometimes. To be reminded that you still had something to learn. The woman standing before him was young and had already lived so much. Sandor had no doubt that her abilities would still grow and mature, in fact he looked forward to living those ups and downs with her. Reveled in the idea that they might grow old together.

 

“The castle is yours.” She answered not bothering to hide how unhappy she was with with their arrangement, but understanding that this was the price of security. 

  
“There is just one final thing before we move on.” She said, casually lifting her satchel from the ground whilst pulling her hair up back into her cap. Sansa’s blue eyes flickered with all the curiosity and thinly veiled anger of a she-wolf ready to attack. “Who’s Elenore?”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **: The War of Souther Occupation Chapter An Unlikely Opportunity  
> ***: The War of Southern Occupation Chapter Two Sides of the Same Coin  
> ****: The War of Southern Occupation Chapter Eliminating an Ally  
> *****: The War of Southern Occupation Chapter Men Like Me


	3. For the Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa establish their loyalty to one another, while ensuring that they will fight for the survival of the pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dears it looks like I might not be able to publish further for another 2 weeks or so. So I wanted to drop this little tidbit off now. I appreciate all your support and love thus far. After this chapter the "fun" begins. 
> 
> Finishing up Chapter 5 as we speak....6 will be difficult....hard to get everything straight. So I'll leave myself some time.
> 
> Hugs and hug me back, it's been a bad start to the week :-p

#  Chapter 3: For the Pack

 

There was a crispness to her voice, the cold calculation of one who was trying to seem emotionally detached from the situation, but failing miserably. Sandor knew this because he was a keen observer of man. You had to be to live as long as he had in this fucked up world, doing the fucked up things that were asked of him. 

 

Though the fact that Sandor was good at interpreting body language would have been obvious to even the layman, for Sandor was a known and respected warrior in Westeros. The Hound could size up his opponent from afar, know by the way he held his sword if he was skilled or green. He could sense by his opponent’s movements their fear or hubris. This was something Sandor pized himself on, something that made him stand out from the other brutes on the island. 

 

Sure he had trained with the best. If there was one thing the money of Casterly Rock attracted it was the best of most things, swordsmen included. Sandor had honed his skills over many years, proving himself both smart and physically formidable. The way Sandor saw it however, anyone could become accomplished in combat as long as they put the time and effort into their training. Combat in and of itself was nothing more than a well choreographed dance between two men and their weapons. The more you danced the less likely you were to come across something that surprised you. As such Sandor had excelled in battle, there was no man in Westeros who could best him in tournament, and certainly not on the battlefield in single combat. He was a good dog, a well trained dog and -- as far as the Lannisters were concerned -- a loyal dog. 

 

Until now. 

 

Sandor knew he would have to prove that loyalty, regardless of his true feelings. He would do it for his family, he would do it to keep them breathing.

 

Despite these characteristics, which were the envy of many a warrior in Westeros, it was his ability to read the soul of man that Sandor coveted most. It was an altogether different and unexpected skill for a man like the Hound. Understanding the human mind, delving into the human heart and being able to predict what a person might do -- was the Hound’s most valued skill. Not everybody could learn this, and not everybody excelled at it. Sandor’s years of living under the roof of the Lannisters, of being at the arm of Lord Tywin himself, had allowed him a keen insight into the mind of man. He could sniff out lies for one, that made him good at getting information out of rats. 

 

More than that he had learned to listen to his instincts, to trust those feelings that he couldn’t quite describe in words. Perhaps it was the edge in a person’s voice that gave it away, maybe a slight twitch of the mouth that helped him to zero in on a person’s intentions. There was not one thing that Sandor could put his finger on that allowed him this insight into the mind of a human being, all he knew was that he was good at it. Better than he let on for sure. 

 

Now, with Sansa, he could sense her jealousy. Even before she had asked her question, before the words had come out of her mouth it was obvious to him that she had been considering something. What had clued him in that it was jealousy was that she had not looked at him when she asked the question, turning her head for fear of what he might say in response. She was fearful he might profess his love for another. In asking him this, she was opening herself up for the possibility that he would say Elenore was his wife back home. That she was the love of his life, the mother of his children. She was right to ask, they needed to trust each other completely if this was going to work. So he understood her need to know. Never in his life would he have thought that a woman might love him so fiercely that she would be jealous. It was a strange feeling, but a good feeling all the same.

 

Amused, Sandor mulled over these thoughts, sitting up in bed he waited for her to look at him -- his expression neutral. Sansa had to learn that looking at a person was the only way to truly communicate. It was a girlish thing to ask such a question, then shy away from the answer. Her time in hiding had built her backbone and her inner strength, but had not equipped her for proper politics. Sandor knew he would need to show her the way. Northern politics paled in comparison to those of the South, she would understand that hard truth soon enough. Grabbing his trousers and pulling them roughly over his hips he stood up and walked the few steps to where Sansa stood. 

 

“That’s what you get for reading through my papers. I thought you would have learned that last time.” He brushed a bit of loose hair from her forehead, but she glared at him.

 

“She’s my sister little bird.” He chuckled softly, using a nickname he knew she wasn’t fond of.

 

Pursing her lips together angrily at his words, Sansa allowed him to kiss her atop the head all the same. It would be the closest to saying ‘sorry’ she would come, so Sandor would have to make peace with it. The woman was headstrong, a quality he prized, but there were times like this when he wished she were not. He needed her to compromise with him and he did not want to do anything to put their current agreement in jeopardy.   

 

Making his way to his desk, Sandor began to assess what she had gone through and what she could know. All the while chiding himself for leaving these kinds of things out for others to see or read. 

 

_ ‘Fool me twice shame on me.’ _ He reminded himself, knowing that he would have to put such things under lock and key from now on. 

 

“How can you be sure she wrote that letter?” Sansa asked after a long while, her voice strained as if she were trying to find a balance between softenss and directness. She could somehow sense this was a difficult topic for him, and she was not wrong. 

 

Sandor looked up from his papers, not surprised by her question, just not ready for it. “Excuse me?” His sister was a touchy subject at best, and he didn’t appreciate discussing it as they were. It was something to avoid, not debate.

 

Coming to the other side of the desk and placing her palms face down on it, she leaned in toward Sandor. “How do you know she’s not dead?”

 

The young Lady of Winterfell wore a stern look on her flawless face. The emphasis she put on the syllables made it clear to him that she did not mean to mince words, nor did she have the time to play games with him. The word ‘dead’ rang through Sandor’s ears, repeating itself over and over again. For a man not given to fear, he was being forced to confront two of them tonight -- he could feel the pace of his heart pick up and knew now would not be the best moment to answer her. For only anger and frustration would pour out, as if she had clamped her hand around an open wound.

 

“They’re using her aren't they? Using her to keep you in your place.” She raised up from the desk and crossed her arms across her chest in thought. “Now it all makes sense why you turned down my offer.” Sandor couldn’t help but be amused by the quick change of conversation as it was she who was looking him straight in the face, and he who searched a spot on the floor. 

 

Elenore was a weakness to be exploited, a reminder that for as big, strong and good in combat as Sandor was --  he was controllable. Elenore served to show him he was not his own man, but a slave to somebody else. She was the leash by to which he was tethered, the chains he could not break free from. It was a pain Sandor had endured for many years because it had not truly changed the course of his life. Deep down he knew he was not a kind man, that he was given to violence and anger. If he had not committed the crimes he had under the Lannister banner, it would have been for a company of mercenaries or another liege lord. Sandor’s sister had merely kept him from leaving Lord Tywin, or doing anything else that might have been contrary to the desires of his keepers. Sansa couldn’t truly understand how that felt, she was a wolf and what was a wolf but a dog that had never known a master? She had never known this kind of misery, if she had ever felt tied to something it would have been duty -- but everything had been taken away from her too soon. As such she was wild like the North, free like the sigil of House Stark -- it was a freedom Sandor had never tasted and it both enticed and scared him.

 

Forcing himself to look Sansa in the eye, Sandor exhaled, buying himself time to answer her. For to speak it outloud would be to make it true, to admit to the thing that had kept power over him. A long silence passed between them before Sandor spoke again, even when he did he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s her script Sansa. I’d know it anywhere.”

 

Sandor was surprised he had kept his cool in answering her, not wanting to stir the pot more than it had already been. Their eyes held one another’s for a very long time. What struck Sandor perhaps the most about this particular moment was the realization that she had found a kinship between them. How he had detected this he could not say, perhaps it was a minute dilation of her pupils that had tipped him off, or a slight misstep in her breath that had caused her chest to rise uncharacteristically. Whatever it had been Sandor instinctively knew what she would say next. 

 

Uncrossing her arms and leaning in so they were forehead to forehead she spoke softly, in great contrast to how she had before. “Then we are both slaves to the South. The throne would keep us tied down rather than leave us be.” She paused a moment, her eyes warming, “We’ll get her back Sandor I promise.”

 

There was something wild and idealistic in her words. He knew she had said it because she meant to do it, she had meant to put him at ease with the promise of freeing him. However Sandor could only feel fear at this promise. For he knew they were fighting against insurmountable odds. There would be no planning, an arbitrary number of battles and winning. It would not be like the war they were fighting now. It would be a war from within they would have to wage. The most difficult kind, and often the most painful. He and Sansa were castaways adrift in a great and mighty sea. All they could hope to do would be to appease those who held power over them. 

 

‘ _ Just admit it to yourself dog. Freedom scares you because you know nothing other than servitude.’  _ The thought came unbid into Sandor’s mind, polluting his loyalties and filling him with shame.

 

“No.” He said as gently as possible. “We’ll stick to the plan. You’ve caused enough uproar with your antics. I will take the castle, we will marry and keep a governorship over the North. Plain and simple.”

 

She pulled her face back and Sandor could see the growing frustration there. “You would still submit to their will? Is this why you’ve wanted me as your wife this whole time? Because the Lannisters willed it?” She was clenching her fists, her voice taking a slightly higher pitch.

 

Sandor had not come all this way, fought so hard and withstood so much to let her, and the North, slip through his fingers. Making his way around the desk Sandor captured her wrist and pulled her to him, sitting on the desk and situating her so as to stand between his knees. He was looking up at her -- her face contorted in an angry little expression that could have been akin to having a small bunny angry with you. Such was the cuteness of her in his mind’s eye.

 

“Listen to me.” Sandor said sternly, using an authoritative tone he usually reserved for his men. “There are elements at work here that we cannot know, and thus we cannot defend against. We have to fight just to not get swept up in the storm, just to keep our heads above water. This is not a time to discuss changing the tide of things. We need to think about staying alive.” 

 

Looking into her eyes he could see she was following him. “We need to be patient and see what happens.” He continued, though he could see her mind racing to understand the gravity of his words. 

 

“I have sway with Lord Tywin, favor even. If we act now, perhaps we are not too late to negotiate with them.” He snorted at this, driving the point home that it had been her who had brought this to a critical point. “If I take Winterfell and can convince them that I have you fully under my…,” he paused a moment in order to find the right word, “... control, then perhaps we can all come out of this with our heads.” 

 

“You speak of quite a few ‘ifs’ my love.” She whispered, and for the first time Sandor was aware that she had fear. That she was afraid for their future and, like him, did not want to die. 

 

She stared at him a long time and said nothing, still processing his words. “We have to be in this together Sansa. No more you or me, ok?” Gripping her hips Sandor shook her.

 

Nodding she put her hands on his shoulders. “There’s a saying in the North.” She began. “I guess it is fitting to our situation. When winter comes, when the days are darkest -- the lone wolf dies, but the pack…”

 

“Survives.” Sandor finished her words, feeling the sentiment as much as she did. Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise at how he had finished her sentence. Smirking, the Hound merely pointed to the sigil embroidered on his tunic on the floor. The three hounds of House Clegane. They were both pack animals, he and Sansa. There was no denying it, no fighting or hiding it. For as fucked up as everything had been since he had ‘inherited’ the North under the banner of his liege lord, Sandor had known this of her instinctively -- even before he had known she was a Stark. The fire of loyalty burnt fierce within them both, a drive for survival fueling it.

 

If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that she had understood. It was a completely different question as to whether she would accept it. Sansa was wild, like a she-wolf who had lived her whole life in the thick green forests of the North. She had no idea what it would mean to come to the table and play politics. To be muzzled, to be tamed, even to be caged. He didn’t want that for her, but he also didn’t believe for one second she would allow that to happen. Not like he had. Sansa was made of sterner stuff than he was -- that was something he had always known about her too. Perhaps that was why he had so much faith in her. 

 

The sneaking suspicion crept over Sandor that she would play the game for now, but, as was her nature, would always be searching for a way to come out on top. Her goal was to settle this score she had with the Lannisters and to keep the pack safe. Her eyes danced with the possibilities open to her, retaking the North, kidnapping his sister -- ideas he would never have conceived of. They were dangerous thoughts, Sandor knew this -- knew he needed to focus her on the task at hand.

 

“So, when do I attack the Winterfell?” He asked, pulling her back to him. 

 

“The protections of the castle are the weakest in the time just before dawn, that would be the best time. I’ll make sure it’s not too difficult for you.” She said. “In two days’ time would be the easiest.”

 

Nodding Sandor stood up. He could hear the clapping and cheering -- the acrobats had finished their final act and she would need to go.

 

“I trust you’ll keep the death to a minimal.” She added, breaking their contact and heading for the tent flap. 

 

Crossing his arms across his broad chest Sandor merely smirked. “See you in two days.”

 

Nodding she ducked out of the tent, making her way through the camp as silently as she had slinked into it. 

 

Sandor stayed in the position he was in, sitting at the edge of his desk and staring off into the distance. His mind was ablaze with what was going to happen and, even though he was getting what he wanted, his victory felt empty -- fragile even. Though Sansa had not said it outright he could not imagine she had not realized he was burning the candle at both ends. Greedy enough to try to get everything he wanted, her, their babe, his sister -- the North. As long as the Lannisters had a stranglehold on him they would never truly be free to make hard decisions. As long as the Hound had a leash, he was nothing more than a loyal pet. Sansa was going to try to change this, though he had no idea how she would. Her desire to rescue him strong. In truth it mattered little at this stage, how they would navigate these unknowns. The more you planned in the future the more inaccurate your planning was -- which meant it didn’t pay off  to explore all the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘when thats’. 

 

_ ‘Storm the castle, secure power and then we’ll see.’ _ Sandor reminded himself. All that they did, they did for the pack. He gained a certain comfort from knowing that now, more than ever, he and Sansa were on the same side. In the end that was all he had really wanted.

 

It was dangerous to allow such sentiments to override Sandor’s gut feelings. He would have to stay sharp for he knew something was amiss. Sandor had always assumed that a protracted assault on the castle would lead to bickering and infighting amongst the Northern Lords. At the time he had been in power at Winterfell they had been surprisingly accommodating and had respected his ability as a leader and commander. The northern rats had been more interested in their own positions in the hierarchy of Westeros, than the good of their own people. The opposite of his she-wolf for certain. Sandor had merely been a means to secure this position for them. So he had counted on, even hoped in some twisted way, they would turn on Sansa so he could retake the North. The introduction of a dagger of southern make, and an attempt on his child’s life had changed Sandor’s perspective on the situation. Altered his feelings about it in ways that were hard to put into words. Certainly in ways he had not admitted to Sansa.

 

_ ‘Had there been a Lannister sympathizer in their midst the whole time?’  _ He wondered to himself,  _ ‘Or was somebody recently bought or promised something under my nose?’ _

 

Neither one boded well for his position with Lord Tywin. They were both indications that power was slipping from his grasp, that he may have overplayed his hand -- ran out of luck with the Lannisters. Not having been in King’s Landing for almost two years, and barely maintaining power in the North had put him on a similar level to Mace Tyrell -- one Sandor hoped he could correct properly in two days’ time. An unfamiliar sinking feeling overcame Sandor. He swallowed hard to fight the bile rising in his throat. The pack was in danger, there were enemies on all sides. His gut screamed to him that something was off, but he did not know what. The Hound was not a man given to praying or hope of any sort, but he was running out of options. Something needed to happen in order to change the sweeping tide of opinion and favor back to his side. He needed to get to the bottom of this fast -- and that started with claiming Winterfell, and everything within it for the pack.


	4. What the Dawn Brings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor retakes Winterfell only understand that problems run deeper than he originally thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been an intense couple of days, but I've come back with so many ideas.....I think I might start a billion stories and take the rest of my life to finish them. Be that as it may I'm looking forward to taking some time to write on chapters 5 and 6 of this story. Enjoy!

#  Chapter 4: What the Dawn Brings

 

There was ice in his bloody beard, more accurately in the hair just above his upper lip, but it mattered little to Sandor exactly where it was. That didn’t change the fact that it was fucking annoying. The nights and early mornings had grown so cold over the weeks,  the ice crystals on his upper lip were just another sign the right choice had been made -- and not a moment too soon. He and his men needed to seek shelter, needed to evacuate their slum of soldiers’ tents in favor of something able to withstand the harsh northern winter. As dawn approached there was still enough darkness that, as long as he and his men moved quietly, they would not be seen. Holding his breath so as not to make it visible to an overly vigilant lookout, Sandor eyed the castle from his position in the tall brown grass. The kitchen fires had not yet been lit, which meant most of those within the stronghold were asleep. 

 

_ ‘Good.’ _ Sandor thought, it meant this could be quick and painless. ‘Could’ being the key word.

 

For Sandor knew what the dawn would bring -- fear, pain and death. That was always a constant in war, something that came without fail. It was what would come after that, after he and his men entered the castle, that gave him pause. Sandor would not accept defeat, that had already been made clear to his commanders. Soldiers who ran or retreated would be hung along with the officer above them. This was enough to up the ante, to ensure that everybody held their end of the deal. There was also an agreement that those who did not fight from Sansa’s forces would be spared, the Others take the rest. Sandor had little time for subversion, and no patience to deal with freedom fighters. If anything he was seeking a quick end to this madness, hoping for an acceptable outcome.

 

And if he would have to kill them all, he would not hesitate.

 

The Hound’s forces struck fast and hard at first light, giving heed to his reputation as a harsh, ruthless commander. There was too much at stake to let something go wrong. Sansa wouldn’t be pleased with this assualt -- many would die --  but the way he saw it, he was doing her a favor. His lips pulling into a devilish grin at the thought, Sandor wondered if she would ever see it his way. For the harder he struck and the more destruction he caused, the more legitimate his victory over her forces would seem to the casual observer. No one would look at the aftermath and wonder if there had been a plan of her own devising. 

 

_ ‘Nobody will look twice because they don’t expect such military cunning from the fairer sex _ .’ Snorting at this thought, Sandor pushed forward. 

 

In the Vanguard, as he always was, the Hound knew his sword would be the first to taste blood. After sitting for months in that horrid camp, with only minor skirmishes here and there, it felt damned good to swing a sword -- and even better to kill again. Sandor’s own personal objectives were clear, make it to the other side of the castle where he suspected Sansa to be, ensure her safety, and levy a harsh defeat on his northern counterparts. There were some minor stumbling blocks to his plans. The secret passage to that room had been barricaded by her men immediately after they had retaken the castle, so as not to afford him or his men a way in. 

 

_ ‘Or have her give into her weakness to see me.’  _ Sandor smirked smuggly to himself, knowing she was a woman who gave into her baser desires. 

 

Be that as it may, he knew the passage was secure, but that came with other problems. She had nowhere to go should one of the Northern Lords decide to have her assassinated. There were many things that played out during the fog of war, enemies on the same side would often fight battles and no one was the wiser. Accidents happened, people were caught up in immeasurable acts of violence and cruelty. Battles were the perfect cover for dubious deeds, and Sandor was sensitive to that -- knew it would be the perfect time to dispose of her if one were so inclined. He had to get to her quickly.

 

The hound’s head helmet Sandor wore added an increased factor of fear to his hulking six foot six frame while he hacked his way through the courtyard of Winterfell. His broadsword securely in both hands, the Hound made his way violently through the mass of pain and suffering. War was a cruel mistress, giving a man the addictive high of adrenaline only to see him eviscerated and dying in the blink of an eye. It was not something Sandor wished on everybody, certainly not her. Nonetheless he had made war his own, become one with it, tamed it to his will. Sandor was many things, but there was not a soul on Earth-- not even the Warrior himself -- who could deny that Sandor excelled at war. His sword an extension of his arm, his consciousness analyzing the violence around him in a way few could. It was an inextricable part of him and any man or beast that stood in the Hound’s way regretted it dearly, paid for it with their lives.

 

In this moment, while Sandor fought through the center of the courtyard, the only thought that entered his mind was,  _ ‘Is this what you feel when your family is at stake?’ _ He wondered, but only fleetingly.

 

Crossing swords with an over enthusiastic knight, Sandor kicked him over his armor in the stomach. The man stumbled backward, but had the presence of mind to block Sandor’s upward swing, pushing their swords to the side -- the ever familiar sound of steel scraping against itself entering the Hound’s ears. It was a sweet song, one he knew well, one he craved. Their swords met again and again, until Sandor found his in. His aim true, Sandor was able to drive his sword through a small seam in the knight’s armor, a weak part that might have escaped the notice of any other opponent in the heat of battle. The man gurgled, jerked and realized he had lost. Extracting his sword from the dying knight, Sandor scanned the muddy courtyard for any other immediate dangers. 

 

Motioning one of his captains to his side, they made for the castle tower where he thought Sansa to be. Meeting little resistance along the way, for the halls were mainly filled with scared kitchen maids and their children, a feeling of calm began to fill the Hound. Pushing past them Sandor moved like the wind over the stone floors, up the stairs he knew well. He and his captain checked every room as they walked past, making sure there were no soldiers lingering, waiting for them in the darkness. It took them ages to progress down the short hallway leading to Sansa’s rooms. Luckily there was nothing of note, just the remnants of personal effects littered the rooms. The door at the end of the hall would be hers. He was so close to her now. It was as if he could feel her there, smell her sweet scent through the thick wood of the door.

 

Grabbing at the door handle, Sandor pulled -- it was bolted, locked from the inside. That was a sign somebody was in there. He wasn’t going knock for her to open the door nor would he wait until she took it upon herself to unbolt it. 

 

_ ‘Who knows what I’ll find?’  _ Fear suddenly flashed out of nowhere. The door didn’t budge making him wonder even more if she were even there or alive. Looking at his captain then moving his eyes to the door, the pair began to throw their shoulders against the heavy wood that made up the door. The castle was old, Sandor had a good feeling the door would cave if they applied a bit of force. On the fourth push they could hear the bar across the door break, the hinges shaking under the combined force of the two men. 

 

Crashing through the threshold with his sword at the ready Sandor took in the room through widened, adrenaline filled eyes. Sansa was there alright, her stance at the ready along with her sword. Sandor didn’t have to look at the weapon to know there was blood on it, he could smell it the moment he had stumbled into the room. The blood that tarnished her weapon was red and fresh dripping down the blade lazily. She had blood on her too, splattered across her face, dark spots and splotches on her clothing. Sansa’s dress was torn, her cheek bruised, her lip bloodied. Tears streaked her pale cheeks, but otherwise she looked to be in good physical condition. There was a tremble to her body, one he knew well. It spoke of fear, confusion and exhaustion. Though she had waged a war against him in the bloodiest of ways, it had mostly been on her terms. Calculated and controlled. Sandor could see right away that she had not fully understood what she had asked of him the night she had come to his tent. 

 

_ ‘This is what happens when you shake hands with a devil.’  _ He knew their union was an abomination, one that no highborn lord or lady would take kindly to. _ ‘But what do they know?’ _

 

The expression on her tear streaked, bloodied face was that of a fierce northern woman, a she-wolf protecting her pup, _ ‘My pup. _ ’ He thought. Her eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed and she looked like she wasn’t about to take shit from anybody. Sandor’s eye shifted to the cradle in the corner and the deadman on the floor near it still gurgling his last breaths.

 

There was no doubt in Sandor’s mind she would have attacked him and his captain had he not pulled off his helmet and let it drop to the floor. So was the tension of the moment, and the instinct to protect their child. It was a scene so beautiful in its own right that Sandor had no words to describe it. Words would have destroyed its perfection, tied the feelings the scene instilled in him to something earthly. It would have been an injustice and a shame. His eyes were all he needed to take it in, along with his heart. 

 

Before his helm could even touch the ground she had dropped her sword, staggered some steps toward him and collapsed into his arms. Her body had begun to shake uncontrollably, making his armor clatter under the intensity of it. Sansa was finally able to let all the fear out of her body, relax for the first time since the battle had begun. “I thought he was you.” She whispered through her tears and sobbing. “I opened the door because I thought he was you.” 

 

Sandor’s free arm wrapped around her, he then turned to his captain, “Get that,” He pointed to the dying man with his sword, “out of here and guard the door with your life.”  There was a curt nod and his man went to work.

 

At that Sandor dropped his sword to the floor and wrapped her up in his arms as tightly as he could. She was heaving now, crying as hard as he’d ever seen her. He could only imagine that the pressure of maintaining her rule, mixed with the treachery of her lesser lords and living in fear had gotten to her. It would have gotten to anyone. She had killed two men who had come to do her and the boy ill. She was tired, angry, scared and woefully out of options. She’d come to him in her most desperate moment, that much was clear. 

 

Sandor buried his face in her hair, “I’m here.” He managed to say through his own emotions. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” His voice trembled at the thought he had nearly come too late.

 

It would have been easy for somebody to brush off her raw emotion as that of a woman’s weakness, but he knew it to be something else. Because he felt it too. The need to be reunited combined with the fear of coming too late. Certainly there was a relief that came with Sandor’s presence. It was the way she clutched her that made that clear to him. She was happy he was there, despite her tears. Of course there was a tempered sorrow in her display as well. For as brutal as the murder of her parents and family had been, she had remained idealistic. Kept to a certain view of the world, and the agents therein, that was not real. Never in a million years would she have considered that those loyal to her would try to have her murdered, or that they might hesitate to follow her because of her sex. These were hard lessons to learn, particularly when you wanted to do good for your people. There was always a moment where you learned the world was not as you though it was -- Sandor had learned this the moment his face was pushed into the fire and his parents had sought to cover up the real reasons why. Sansa saw it now, in these last days as she and their child became a threat to the natural balance of things. 

 

His words only seemed to make her cry more as emotion poured out of her small yet powerful body. All Sandor could do was hold her until she calmed, let her ride out the feelings she had been too proud to show him two nights before. Sandor marveled at her strength and resolve, and began to slowly realize how fragile it could be. It was his job to be strong when her strength  ran out, to carry her when she could no longer stand. This moment humbled him, cemented his bond with her in ways he could not have fathomed. There was no saying how long they stayed in the middle of the room in their close embrace, only that time seemed to stand still as they did so. 

 

A small gurgle and a coo came from the cradle, drawing Sandor’s attention from Sansa. It had not dawned on him that he was so close to the boy now, though that should have been obvious. The macabre scene he had walked in on had clearly indicated it. Looking up at him through tear glazed eyes Sansa nodded, as if confirming his thoughts, and motioned he make his way to the corner of the room by inclining her head.

 

Ensuring that breaking their embrace would not send her collapsing to the floor, Sandor released Sansa slowly. He then turned to the cradle. As a warrior he was unaccustomed to knots in his stomach, nervousness typically evaded him. But this was something different. Given all the sins he had committed over his lifetime and the abomination that was his face, deep in the recesses of his mind Sandor had always held a fear that his child would be just as monstrous as he was. That his child would have a forked tongue and horns -- who knew. As irrational as it may have seemed, there was a shade of fear mixed with the anticipation of meeting his son for the first time swirling around inside his chest. Fighting his instincts Sandor began to close the distance between himself and the crib. The weary warrior removed his gloves as he made his way to the cradle's edge and looked down inside. He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding while a wave of relief swept over him to see a happy, healthy and rather stunning baby looking back at him. There was no fear in Brendan's eyes, no trepidation. 

 

Just curiosity. 

 

The boy made more noises and reached his little hands out toward Sandor. Sandor had never picked up a baby before, he had avoided the bloody things like the plague and yet now -- now was different. Taking the babe in with his eyes for a moment, the Hound fought back the emotions bubbling deep within him. While he may have been used to seeking out the inner workings of others, his own were often monochrome. Eating, sleeping, fighting. That had been Sandor’s life for more years than he could even remember. What he was feeling now was something different. He wanted to give the boy something of himself. The desire to raise the boy up with knowledge and opportunities he had never had. It was a side of Sandor he had not known was there, nor would have ever known until his son had come into the world. Now he was coming to terms with it.

 

Not caring how much grit and blood had made its way through his gloves and on to his hands, Sandor reached into the cradle and picked the little boy up, holding him so they could look one another straight in the face. The child was fat and active, squirming in all directions at the awkward way in which Sandor was holding him. The child was so little and helpless it made Sandor’s blood boil to think anybody could order the death of a child. The boy was so innocent, so pure It was almost shocking Sandor’s hands weren’t burning off. 

 

Brenden had his mother’s eyes, Sandor could see it right away -- perhaps he had Sandor’s mouth. Certainly he had a bushy head of brown hair. Other than that it was hard to say much more. The boy was a cute little bugger, and he wondered briefly how a child like this could grow into a man one day. His son was regarding him with both curiosity and apprehension as he squirmed in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. The babe got anxious at the sight of Sansa, wriggling even more in Sandor’s grasp. His curious little face turning into teary-eyed frustration at the sight of his mother, combined with his inability to go to her.  

 

“He’s hungry.” She said from behind him, having cleaned the blood off of her and dried her eyes. 

 

Handing the child over to Sansa before it began to cry outright, Sandor watched her smile and talk to their son as she cradled him in her arms. Motherhood suited her, made her face light up with happiness so bright she nearly glowed. Aside from that she was bloody gorgeous. It made him want to put another child in her, to give her as many children as she bloody well wanted. If it meant seeing her like that -- seeing her happy and contented.  

 

Passing a finger over the babe’s cheek and kissing Sansa atop the head Sandor spoke. “I have to secure the rest of the castle, prepare for this evening at sundown.”

 

She nodded to him with a slight grin, realizing that he was staring at his son while the babe reached for her breast. It was hard for Sandor to understand how he could love a baby he had only just met, that he could have such strong feelings for the boy. _ ‘He’s both of us together. _ ’ Was the only thing Sandor could figure.  _ ‘And, against all odds, he’s beautiful.’ _

 

Sandor couldn’t allow himself to be distracted though. There was still a lot to do before they would wed that evening, namely secure every inch of the castle. Then his men would have to move their camp into the castle walls before nightfall -- and there would need to be a feast of course. Turning his mind away from festivities, Sandor needed to confront the fact that for the second time in only a handful of days there had been an attempt on the life of Sansa and their child. He began to question whether marriage would be enough to protect her -- knowing full well it would be better than nothing. It would displease her for him to purge the castle of northern combatants, but it would need to be done. There was no way in the seven hells he was going to allow another son of a bitch northerner to stay in this castle. Not before he knew what was going on. It would be his men and his men only.

 

Whether she liked it or not was inconsequential at this stage.

 

The dawn had brought with it a day, as it always did. But on this day, he had reunited his family. That made it a good day, one of the few he had ever known.


	5. What The Night Brings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor seal their union with a wedding, but Sandor harbours concerns over their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very happy to release one more chapter in this story. I don't often pain over chapters, but in this story I do. It takes me three times as long to write for it as I would for other WIPs. So I hope you are enjoying it so far. I've said in the past that this chapter would be the last "nice" chapter, but I'll revise this claim. Initially I wanted to put the bedding in this one...but found it better to just separate them. So the next chapter will be just the bedding and something nice and fluffy to make us feel warm and fuzzy. :-)

#  Chapter 5:  What the Night Brings

 

Having had the good luck to snatch up some clean clothing that actually fit him, Sandor exhaled deeply as he floated in the hot springs near Winterfell castle. It had been a long day, one that he wouldn’t soon forget. Above all it had been satisfying, a testament to his hard work and wherewithal as a commander -- but the night would fall soon. A grin spread across the Hound’s scarred face at what that meant. Taking his pilfered bar of soap from the edge of the water Sandor lathered it inside of his large hands until he could no longer see the color of his own skin. Allowing the soap suds to slip between his thick fingers, he began to work his hands over his bulging shoulders and chest. He wanted to be clean, he needed to expel the sweat and blood of the day from his skin -- it would be the closest he would come to purity -- especially before his wedding.

 

Taking the bar of soap again he rubbed it over his abs, feeling it run over every one of his sculpted muscles. Dipping his hands even deeper, he cupped his balls and washed his most intimate parts well. Pulling back his foreskin he cleaned underneath, wrapping his battle weary hands around his shaft and giving his cock a good couple of tugs. There was no hiding what he was looking most forward to this evening, no doubting what would happen. Tonight meant so much more to him than just claiming Sansa as his wife. They would be bound together by law, no one would be able to deny that. Sandor would finally fulfil a need he had not known was there until he had first laid eyes on her, now well over a year ago.

 

Sandor leaned back into the warm water to rinse himself, looking up at the sky. ‘ _ The battle has only just begun.’  _ He knew it, though he was loath to admit it openly. Despite this looming darkness he would try his best to enjoy this night, for the night would bring him what he had always desired -- a family strong and fair. Everything else could wait until morning.

 

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Sandor turned  to see who it was, having forgotten he had asked one of his captains to meet him there in the mess of moving their camp to the castle. The man stood at the edge of the water, looking down at Sandor and waited. Not caring for Sandor’s nudity or the state of his manhood. He was close with all his men, they’d been through hell and back, having seen each other in all states and conditions. 

 

“Send ravens to King’s Landing and Casterly Rock. Tell them Winterfell has fallen, and I’ve taken the Lady Stark as my wife.” Sandor ordered. “And make sure that,” Sandor pointed to a sealed envelope near his sword belt on the ground, “ gets to the hand of Lord Tywin himself.” The young man nodded, not once questioning anything and left almost as swiftly as he had come. Sandor exhaled deeply knowing full well what he was setting into motion -- and having no idea what the ramifications would be. It was a known fact he had fathered the child and his men knew Sandor was taken with Sansa. If all went to plan, taking her to wife would ensure, in the eyes of the Lannisters, that he had proper control over her and thus the North. This marriage was not just for personal benefit, but also a political power move. After years of war in the North, Sandor was betting on the fact that his liege lord would want calm and peace -- not able to fight battles on all fronts. With their loyal pet in the North, using a Stark to maintain power, the Lannisters might just leave them alone. 

 

That was hat he hoped anyway.

 

_ ‘It’s the best chance we have.’ _ He said to himself, as if he were trying to convince himself that was the best and only option.

 

Suddenly realizing how low the sun was in the sky, Sandor knew he needed to move on. They had agreed to a marriage at sunset, though he wondered if she would want to go through with it after what he had done. Sansa had agreed before she had seen the death and destruction laid upon her castle, before the true toll paid by her men had been seen or felt. 

 

_ ‘She’ll get over it.’ _ Sandor smirked to himself,  _ ‘And she won’t be given a choice in the marriage. It’s too late to back out now.’ _

 

Just as with a horse, or any other beautiful headstrong creature, one had to be firm. She would not like these new conditions, of that he was sure.  But he would not stand down and Sandor knew she would eventually have to give in. Their love was a complicated thing, one that no normal sane person could understand. Sandor didn’t mind though, it was theirs. One born of strong wills and an even stronger sexual desire. He had always been drawn to independent women, but he had never truly admired one until Sansa. She’d handed his ass to him, chose her people over him -- saved him from a very likely death.* Now it was his time to save her, to protect her -- to give her the courage to be who she was born to be. ‘ _ And the courage to love me openly.’  _

 

Drying off with a small towel, Sandor pulled up his leather trousers and dawned his freshly stolen tunic. He had no maiden’s cloak for her, nor would it matter much. That was a highborn southern custom, and she was of the North. They were to be married under the heart tree, the way his mother would have wanted it. Not given to soft moments, this one made him shake his head and pull his wet hair back. He had already cleaned up his beard, trimmed it and shortened his hair a bit. So there was no need for a mirror now, he was just ensuring that his hair fell such that it covered his burns somewhat. As a young man he had been more concerned about what others thought, now he barely noticed people looking at his face in either fear or confusion. Today, he just wanted everything to go right, have this one little fluke happen so that he could pretend he had a life much better than it was.

 

Strapping his sword to his waist, Sandor made his way to the godswood just as night was falling, and right on time. Some of the castle staff had gathered, along with her Maester and some handmaidens. One held his son who was bright eyed and thrumming at the mood of things. Brenden was a gift, something he had never known he wanted until he had met Sansa. Sandor would teach the boy everything he could, all the things he knew with the hope that this child would use that knowledge to get along better in this world than he ever had. Sandor promised himself that there under the great weirwood tree so the Old Gods could hear it. For a man not given to superstition it seemed important, in this moment, not to leave anybody out. Sandor knew he would need all the help he could get.

 

It was difficult not to notice that the last fireflies of the season were in attendance as well. The slowly darkening twilight was alive with their glow, it added a ethereal mood to what would otherwise have been a very small and mundane affair. This would not be the huge glorious wedding Sansa had dreamed of as a child, of that Sandor was sure. Though what in her life had turned out how she had dreamed before this conflict began? She’d been forced from her home a naive scared girl and had come out of it a bold and strong woman. Perhaps that’s what it took to make a strong woman, a girl that had been ripped to shreds only to survive as something more resilient than before. The realization hit him only then that he could not have loved her if things had been different, if she had been like every other highborn lady he had ever met. Theirs was a kinship and a love born of pain, sorrow and circumstance -- the perfect storm of elements that came along once a milenia. 

 

A hushed silence came over the crowd as they parted, looking over their shoulders at the bride to be. She wore a light grey dress out of wool, some small embroidery on the long sleeves that fell to her wrists. Over her shoulders she wore a cape of white fur. Sansa had chosen to walk the aisle to where he stood under the great weirwood tree alone, which he found fitting given all she had accomplished with the years. 

 

Sandor’s mouth twitched into a grin as he saw the expression on her face,  _ ‘She couldn’t be more angry with me.’  _

 

Sansa wore a glare on her face that would have stopped a white walker dead in his tracks. The narrowing of her eyes only served to set off the sapphire blue of them, making them illuminate in the low light of the godswood. It was as if a light shone directly on them, highlighting her displeasure with what he had done. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth pulled into a tight thin line.  _ ‘Even in her anger she’s beautiful.’  _ Sandor’s heart beat harder in his chest at the sight, his nerves tingling at the thought of their looming nuptials.

 

Of course she had to play the part. In the eyes of everybody around them, Sandor had been the aggressor-- storming her castle, decimating her forces and pushing her into an unwanted marriage. So it was only natural that she would look as she did right now -- ready to rip his cock off and feed it to some hungry animal. Yet Sandor knew her better than anyone here, and he could see that she was truly displeased with his antics. It was probably impolite to stand in front of this sacred tree with an erection, but just the thought of bringing her back around to this way of thinking got him hard. He thrived on challenges. There was no shying away from conflict in this little family they were making, and he could not have been happier -- but he hid it nonetheless.

 

Holding out his arm to her, she took it with gritted teeth, turning as soon as she could to the Maester presiding over the ceremony. Through all the rambling words, sacred texts and reciting of phrases the only thing Sandor could think of was how far they had come and how much more they had to go. They were not in a good position, but not in a bad one either. One of his few comforts was knowing he had a strong, brave and tactical partner at his side. Even in war most of the foot soldiers had a ‘battle buddy’ so you knew your back was always covered. So you knew somebody would bring your body back to your family if you perished. 

 

_ ‘And oh how the bodies will fall.’  _ Sandor thought as he looked into her eyes and said his words. They were a force to be reckoned with, that he knew implicitly.

 

Though she tried to hide it, Sandor could detect a slight emotion in Sansa’s voice as she made her promise to him. Deep down she loved him something fierce -- the way only a wild animal can love its master. Both despising their master’s very existence and realizing that they were a bridge to safety and security. She was just taking her sweet time to rationalize it all.

 

Their hands were tied together and they were pronounced married in both soul and word. Knowing it was horribly out of place, Sandor took her by the waist and brought their bodies closer kissing her long and deep in for all the old gods to see. He wanted them to see, to know the depths of his desire for her. He wanted everyone in attendance to fucking know it. Her hands pushed against his shoulders at first, but then they slowly softened at the playfulness of his tongue, and the gentleness of his lips.

 

Sandor pulled back only when he ran out of breath. Sansa looked up at him, breathless -- a softness in her eyes that was fleeting for she was still rather angry with him. But he was making progress, slowly but surely. There was a spark in her eye, and Sandor knew he only need find the right medium to set it ablaze. A satisfied look on his face, the Hound led her to the Great Hall where a small feast had been planned, the smell of spilt blood from the morning still hung in the air. 

 

“No more plans I should be aware of?**” Sandor whispered teasingly as she sat down at the table. Still angry she merely lifted an eyebrow and looked at her plate. One could never be too sure if she didn’t have something up her sleeve, her execution of the Northern Lords who had wanted to side with him was still fresh in his mind -- and certainly in the mind of most everybody in attendance. Sandor would be a fool to fall for her tricks a second time, which was why he had asked his men to be on high alert this night.

 

Perhaps Sansa could not see it herself, but he saw the weight lifted off of his men now. No more wasting away to disease and hunger, they were within the walls of the city. They would be able to gain their strength in warmth and security -- await the onslaught this union would very likely bring upon them. But now was not the time to think of such things. Sandor needed to rejoice, enjoy this short time in which he wasn’t up to his knees in horse shit or dead men. 

 

Seeing his wife without a smile on his face, Sandor leaned over. “You can’t hate me forever.” He whispered in her ear.

 

“Oh really?” She asked rhetorically, daring him to take issue with her words. 

 

“Really.” Sandor said simply, taking her by the wrist and pulling her into his lap. Catching her chin in his other hand, he then pulled Sansa’s face so she would be forced to look at him.

 

“I did what I had to do. And you’re welcome.” An impish grin came to his lips. It angered her -- and he loved it.

 

Before she could gather herself to counter his words he continued. “No one will ever question what happened here today, of that you can be sure.” He waited, but she had pursed her lips together. “Aside from that, there were two attempts on both you and the boy. If you think I’d let a Northman even cross the threshold of this castle you are sorely mistaken.”

 

Sansa considered his words. Sandor then pressed his advantage. “Look out into the Great Hall and tell me what you see.” He said into her ear, watching goosebumps form on her exposed neck as he did so.

 

“I see a room full of foreign murders.” She said her arms crossed over her chest, not keen to play his little game. 

 

“Look again.” He urged her, hoping she would soon grow tired of her own stubbornness. 

 

Sighing Sansa turned her head out again toward the center of the Great Hall, observing them more closely. “I see men laughing and eating. They are drinking and celebrating.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor answered. “Now let me tell you what I see. Men who are loyal to me, to us. I trust them with my life, with your life, with the boy’s life. They are Westermen and until we know who was conspiring against you, none of your men will have shelter here. So get used to these faces.”

 

At that her demeanour changed, realizing perhaps for the first time that there was a method behind the madness. That he hadn’t been cruel when he took the castle just for the sake of it. “So put a smile on that pretty face, we have the bedding to look forward to.” He almost growled his arousal in her ear, while he brought her hand to rub over the front of his rather strained leather trousers.

 

Sansa somewhat reluctantly smiled at first, then turned to kiss him at the feel of his erection. This woman had a way to making him crazy, Sandor couldn’t deny it. Cupping her ass in one hand and pulling her body tighter to his, their kiss deepened. He loved this woman like crazy, knew he would do anything to keep her safe. Even if it meant surrendering his own life. 

 

The sound of a crying baby and a handmaiden broke their intimate kiss. “My Lady, the child is hungry.”

 

Sansa stood up and took the child in her arms. “I’ll be in our rooms.” She said, an apologetic look on her face as she looked at him. 

 

Nodding Sandor waved her off. “I’ll stay here a moment longer, then meet you there.” In all honesty he did not want to follow a classic bedding call that was so common at these weddings. He had no interest in being stripped of his clothing and pushed into the bedroom with his equally naked wife. They were far beyond that point by now.

 

Pressing the baby to her body, Sansa swiftly made her way out of the Great Hall, leaving Sandor to his men. Of all people Sandor knew these happy moments were few and far between -- knew they were quickly overshadowed by other darker events that no one could ever foresee. So he lifted a glass to his men, and sang songs with them to honor their victory and his wedding. For a reckoning would be upon them, it was more a question of when.


	6. A Moth to the Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa consummate their union as Sandor struggles to find peace with a war he does not know how to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I updated this piece, I'm super happy to get this chapter out of the way and move on to the meat of the story :-)
> 
> Our last chapter of fluff for a while, so eat it up while you can!

#  Chapter 6: A Moth to the Flame

 

It was only several toasts to his union later that Sandor took to walking the empty halls of Winterfell. The castle was in ruins, not a soul traversed its dark halls. Now was not the moment to think about restoring the stronghold to its former glory, that would take time and effort. Now was the time to restore his connection to his wife, to show her that nothing--not even the love of her people--would come between them again. Rounding the stairs, Sandor felt his stomach tighten at the thought of opening the door. Excitement filled him, knowing she would be there--warm, soft, and hopefully willing. 

 

Nodding to the guard outside of the door, Sandor pushed inside, his eye immediately focused on where Sansa was standing. Near the fire was where the crib had been placed, the motion of her rocking it cast shadows across the whole room. She was singing a song to the child, one Sandor could remember from his own mother. It was a northern song, for it spoke of the snow and the evergreens--not something you found in the South. Sandor’s heart swelled at the sight, there was something indescribable in watching the woman you love contented. 

 

It was a feeling he had never known before now.

 

Walking up behind her, Sandor wrapped his arms around Sansa’s waist, pushing her ass into his groin. She leaned into him easily, her hands coming to rest atop his own. 

 

“He’s beautiful,” she said, looking down at their son sleeping softly in the crib, his belly full. 

 

Sandor said nothing, but he agreed with her. It was hard to believe that she had given birth to his son--even harder still to believe she loved this ragged old dog as fiercely as she did. Burying his head into her hair, Sandor couldn’t remember a time when he had been so sated. Other than his strength and aptitude for battle, life had given the Hound little to look forward to. His instinct to survive overriding all other thought and logic, driving him to commit atrocities few others would. Sansa had changed that all of course, though she knew not what she had done. From the moment he had cornered her in that barn with a pitchfork in her hands with a deadman on the other end of it, he knew his life would be different.

 

Looking down at their child and feeling Sansa melt into his own body, Sandor knew he could not reveal to anybody just how much they meant to him. Love was a deadly thing for men like him. It was an emotion that fucked with his instinct to survive, made him vulnerable in ways the Lannisters, or any other of his opponents, could exploit. If there was one thing he was sure of, Sandor didn’t want their marriage to be a death sentence. Nor did he want it to be used as a bargaining chip by some opportunistic vulture of a Lord. Yet he had a sinking feeling that he had marked his family.

 

_ I’ll kill any man who comes between us,  _ he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the words.

 

They could trust nobody. The Hound knew this instinctively, yet dreaded the thought of what that would mean. They were fighting a war from within now, and that meant the rules of engagement were different. There would be no honor in this war, no glory to be had. Sandor felt it would be fought in the shadows, with words and whispers, contracts and assurances. These methods of combat were such fickle things to hang your life on. A promise, a handshake, a lie; all of these things could keep you alive in this shadow war, just as easily as they could kill you. 

 

Sandor would have much preferred to play to his strengths. A bit of steel and his wits had gotten him this far after all,  _ At least in combat you know who your enemies are and can silence them quickly.  _ It would not be so clear this time, and Sandor loathed the thought. 

 

Taking him by the hand, Sansa led him across the room to their bed. Sandor grinned at the idea that she couldn’t stay mad at him long, for he knew the inner workings of her heart better than even she thought he did. She thrived on conflict just as much as he did, had used it to her advantage in much the same way he had. They were birds of a feather, so different and yet the environment that had shaped them had been so similar. 

 

Bidding he sit at the end of the bed, Sansa knelt between his legs and began to slowly unlace his trousers. Sandor cupped her face as she did so, letting those brilliant blue eyes shine in the light of the fire. He was large and meaty in her dainty hands. The very thought that she had killed a man earlier that day with those same hands made his cock thrum all the more. She lavished attention on his balls first, using the pads of her fingers to move his foreskin just over the tip of his cock. Both getting it out of her way and adding to the pleasure he felt. His palms now on the bed, Sandor allowed his head to tip back in a groan, moving his hips all the more toward her face. 

 

She was good with her mouth, no man would have told her differently. Sansa had a keen understanding of what pressures were good, great and teasing. Sandor lightly cupped her chin in his hand, moving her face up so she could look at him. Blue flames met his gaze. Her stare was smouldering with lust, burning so hot it set her eyes ablaze with the hottest color of fire. Never a man to do what was good for him, Sandor knew he should fear the fire, be cautious in its presence. Yet there was something intoxicating about hers, something so bewitching, that he found himself a moth to the flame. 

 

He had pained himself greatly over the last months, wondering if a marriage would be the right way to protect what he cared about, and reassure his liege lord that everything was under control. There were no right answers in this dangerous game they played, only near misses and lucky breaks. Sandor knew love would not be enough to save them from the Lannister storm, for if it had been, they would have long laid waste to their enemies.  _ No, there’s more to it than that _ , he realized. 

 

Watching the woman he loved work so hard to pleasure him, and knowing the lengths she was willing to go to get what she wanted, Sandor hoped they could be different.  _ If not our love, then our sheer wills. No gods will help us, no family, nobody. I’m all she has in this world, and even if our union is traitorous, she doesn’t care.  _

 

Sandor smiled and removed his tunic. He admired his wife because, unlike him, she was wild and fierce in a way a trained dog could never be. A dog would always look to its master for approval. Even in hunting, a dog must suppress its instincts, swallow its desires for the joy of eating from its master’s hand. The wolf, however, was in tune with the world around it. Having tracked and hunted for its own meals, ensured it answered to no man. It was free, beautiful, and, above all, feared by others. 

 

Bringing Sansa’s lips to his own, Sandor was surprised to feel hot tears run down the sides of his face. He could not say where they had come from or why they would fall now. The Hound was not a man to show his vulnerabilities, even if he had only a handful to speak of. Yet he felt so raw, so complete with her near that this was the only response his body felt fitting to display.

 

Straddling him, Sansa stared into his eyes a moment in the dim firelight. Her thumb went to brush the tears away from the scarred side of his face, and he leaned into her palm. Sandor’s hands were not idol though, they snuck their way up her skirts with tactical precision, knowing exactly where they needed to be. Leaning forward, Sansa lifted her hips from his so that he could easily find her soaked underwear. Merely pushing them to the side, Sandor was pleased to feel her hand wrap around his engorged length, guiding it to her opening. 

 

The feeling of her heat was one he would never tire of, the tightness with which she squeezed around his cock made his eyes roll back in his head. Sandor exhaled deeply while she settled down on top of him, sheathing his swollen length completely. He pawed at her bodice, then gave up trying to release her breasts from their prison, and just pulled her body flush with his own. 

 

As they embraced and kissed, Sandor moved within her. It was different now, knowing that she was his wife. In that was the implicit understanding that they would be together until one of them breathed their last. It made him feel strong in a way he never had before. As if, for the first time in his life, he could rely on somebody. 

 

They were pack animals. Weak on their own, but together they were cunning, swift, and knew what needed to be done to take down an enemy. That was why they could never be apart again, why he needed to fight no matter the cost.

 

Sansa lifted her head and moaned at the feeling of his cock working inside of her. Kissing her neck, he could feel her pulse beating, flying as they labored in their passion. 

 

Fumbling with the lacing of her dress, Sandor managed to loosen them enough to free her breasts. At that she pushed up from him, wiggling out of her bodice so her gorgeous tits came into his view. Both of her hands were flat on his chest while she rode him, her hair rolling over her neck and shoulders, a flush rising in her cheeks. She was taking him completely, the whole of his cock from base to tip as she feverishly rolled her hips atop of him. 

 

Sandor’s chest heaved as he attempted to slow down the fluttering of his own heart, knowing that if he did not, this encounter would end sooner than he would want. Sansa was beautiful in her intensity, unparallelled in her passion. There was a thrill to thinking you had tamed a wild animal, yet knowing there was always a chance it would turn on you. There was a danger to it, something that drew Sandor in, gripped him so tightly that he was helpless against it. 

 

He knew she was close to finding her release. It was the way the flush rose high on her neck and stayed there. Sansa’s porcelain skin was a canvass for her emotions. He could know what she was thinking simply by watching the blood flow on her chest, neck and cheeks. Now, she was in the full throws of her lust, nothing would draw her away from it. Sandor moved his hips in accordance with her own, wanting to penetrate her as deeply as he possibly could. She loved it, her hushed moans filling the room. 

 

Sansa jerked, and that familiar pulsing of her little cunt around him began. It would squeeze his cock tightly and release, doing this for some moments while she felt her pleasure course through her body. She was breathing heavily, her forehead coming to rest on his chest. Embracing her, Sandor took a moment to catch his breath, knowing she would be even more demanding when he would take his place atop her. 

 

He rolled on top of her, then moved her legs so both were on the same side of him. Placing both of his hands on either side of her face Sandor began to move again, the firm smack of his balls against her ass making a sweetly intimate sound. He loved being so close to her, craved it above almost everything. Sandor could feel the sweat forming on his brow, feel his legs growing weaker. He had done it all today, fought, wed, feasted, and was now about to consummate his rightful marriage. It was more than one body could take, certainly more than his old bones could manage.

 

Closing his eyes, Sandor knew he wouldn’t need much time now. She was far too stimulating, far too perfect for him to last after all that had happened. His peak came quietly, but that only underlied its intensity. He was giving her his energy, everything he had left, and it was more satisfying than anything he had ever done. Gripping her upper thigh, he could feel her own muscle tension and wondered if she had found another release.

 

Rolling to his side, Sandor pulled Sansa atop of him, her head coming to rest squarely on his chest, her legs between his own. They said nothing for a long while in the waning light, their breath the only sound in the room.

 

“Tomorrow’s a new day,” Sansa said finally, her voice already indicating her half sleep. 

 

“Aye,” Sandor answered her, rubbing her arm with his hand. 

 

He never slept after battle, as tired as he may be. Sandor typically used this time to reflect on the day. They had won a small victory, but there would be many more battles to come. Sandor lost himself in Sansa’s steady breathing, allowing it to envelop him totally. Tomorrow would be another day, but before he could even think on that one, he preferred to live in the here and now. 

 

Sandor Clegane had fought his whole life, knowing there were only brief pauses between conflicts. Moments like these were few and far between for a man like him, and his experience had taught him to savor them. He would never be ready for a war like this, a war from within. He would have to find peace with that, whether he liked it or not.

**Author's Note:**

> The asterisks indicate a reference to The War Of Southern Occupation. Cheers!


End file.
